A Rush of Blood
by IAmDevon
Summary: Erik abducts young Christine after the brutal murder of her family. There is no excuse for what he does, and no remorse. He is Erik, and he kills. Tragedy is in the making when he decides that he's in love with his prisoner, but she does not love him.
1. Family Portrait

**A/N: Have fun with it.**

**Disclaimer: No.**

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_"And I will punish the world for their evil, and the wicked for their iniquity; and I will cause the arrogancy of the proud to cease..." - Isaiah 13:11_

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Christine was only nine years old when it happened. Bobby, her older brother, had locked her in the basement that day - a mean, cruel joke. It figured. She had just gotten back from a sleepover with Amber, and he got jealous sometimes. After shouting some bad words at him that she probably would have gotten into trouble for, she decided that she would have to get herself out.

After all, Mommy and Daddy were used to her running to one of the empty old rooms in their too big house. As long as she didn't walk out of the front or back door, they were fine. And if they asked about her, Bobby would just tell another one of his great big lies. She'd pour some drink on his favorite shoes. Or put spaghetti in his bed. Or -

She set to attacking the weak, tired lock with an equally rusty hammer. It gave way surprisingly quickly; she resolved to inform her parents of the door's condition. She would also let them know about Bobby. Maybe they'd take away his Nintendo. He really loved his Nintendo...

Nobody came running when she called for her mommy. Or her daddy. And after she began to get suspicious (suspicious, not worried), when she called for Bobby too. No one. Were they all playing a joke? No, no they wouldn't do that. Maybe Daddy or Bobby - they were immature like that. Boys. But not Mommy. Mommy would tell them to stop, even though she might have wanted to smile. She really, really wanted her mommy because she always hugged her and smelled like the stuff in the washing room and apples. She felt nervous now.

Christine got that really bad feeling in her throat - like it was trying to close up and it kept hurting and hurting. She rarely ever cried, so this made her even angrier. She decided not to speak to any of them for a whole _day _when she finally found them. They would probably beg, but she wouldn't care. They deserved it. She tried the kitchen first, then the living room. After that, Bobby's room, her room, Mommy and Daddy's room...

She found them. She found them all on the bed, cuddled together, waiting for her. Covered in sticky-looking red stuff that she knew to be blood. Propped up just like life-sized dolls. Dolls didn't move, and neither would they. Never again.

Mommy was on the right, leaning against Daddy, while Bobby sat between them. Their throats were open, disturbing the supposedly familiaral picture. Their eyes were closed, but each eyelid had a small dot the size of a fingertip on them. Their mouths were in a forced looking smile. And she wanted to scream, she really did. She _really_ wanted to scream. But she couldn't.

Because there was a man right beside the bed, sitting down and leaning against the nightstand with a snow white full-face mask on.

His legs were bent, his hands resting on them. His eyes were closed. She noticed they had really long eyelashes and he sort of looked like a one of those puppet clowns, only without the painted smiles. He was very thin. She also saw that he had a really bloody knife in his hand. It was long and sharp and thin and silver and glinty and she'd never _ever_ forget what that knife looked like. But she would also never forget the rush of absolute hatred that crawled over and rushed through and consumed her in that moment.

And she rushed at him with a tiny, furious roar.

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Erik was very proud of his work. The family that was propped on the bed was artistic genius. Beautiful. He was very proud of the smile that he had given them. And right now, he was at peace. Or as close to peace as he could get. He leaned against the nightstand beside the bed and sunk down, giving them one last almost-smiling glance. Almost. He never really smiled.

He thought of their last moments that so fittingly lacked any real glory. Breaking into their house was not his easiest job, but certainly not his hardest. Their alarm system was a joke and he had slid in through the kitchen. Seeing no one downstairs, he'd hurried up the stairs. He'd been cautious, but excited, like always.

The little boy was on the floor, feet sticking out from under the bed as he rummaged for something. Erik had stood at the head of it, his feet hidden by the headboard. He'd briefly wondered what it must have been like to have such a beautiful home with a beautiful room and beautiful parents.

Equilibrium. Everything reached equilibrium at one point or another. Even for him.

When the boy came back up, he had lunged before the little ape even had an opportunity to scream. The throat was slit quickly, the body carelessly dropped to the floor. It had been risky, going after this family. He knew next to nothing of them. But a sense of rightness had filled him when he'd caught sight of this one a week ago. They were (or rather, had been) beautiful, happy, well off. He hated them. That thought fueled him as he found his way around.

The father was in the room that he had apparently shared with his wife, leaning over and digging into his drawer. Furious, and with quick, easy movements, he killed him. He writhed for a moment as his wife came out of their bathroom, face alive with worry and fear. He didn't kill her immediately. No, what he did shouldn't have been carried out in anger.

So until he calmed himself, he restrained her, covering her mouth. It was a cliche move, but he didn't want to damage anything. He didn't believe in damaging, only breaking completely. He had had to take deep breaths. He had had to think of what he was doing, not why. And it had worked. It always did. He healed in this.

The task was completed with all the speed and precision of his previous acts.

It was easy to prop them on the bed. He'd become an expert at spilling as little blood as possible. He wanted to keep his art intact. He had quickly snapped a picture of them to add to his collection and then...

Erik gave another somber half-smile. It was regrettable that he would have to destroy what he had created. No one else needed to see what he saw. No one else could understand. However pressed for time he might have been, he had to stop and look at them. They did look so perfect together. That's what they had wanted, wasn't it, he thought angrily. Beauty. Perfection. Now they had it. He hummed a tune. Over the Rainbow. It reminded him of good things. He'd never had very good things. Now they would never have them either.

Someone was coming. He could hear them downstairs. He frowned a bit. Another body to add. And they already looked so perfect just the way they were. He decided to let whoever it was find him here. It would add be fitting. And he wasn't quite ready to move. It took them a few minutes, but whoever it was finally made it up.

Tiny, pattering footsteps.

A little child.

Determined footsteps.

An impertinent child.

He hadn't seen this one. But it couldn't have been some unexpected visitor. He would have heard them. He was always alert. No, this person had been here, waiting.

But he could wait too.

_Come on, come on_, he thought ecstatically. He felt that familiar rush.

The child stopped breathing, obviously surveying his amazing work. No movement. Then a shrill scream. His last thought before he opened his eyes was that it must have been a little girl.

He was right of course. A little, tiny thing with blond, bouncy curls and sea blue eyes was pounding at him, shouting at him. He raised an eyebrow at her words. Surprising. He pried her away gently, sitting her down on the floor. She raged at him still, going so far as to bite him. She didn't seem to notice his chilling skin. He imagined it didn't taste very good either.

"I hate you, I hate you! I hate you you son of a bitch! I hate you! I hate you! You took my Daddy and Bobby and Mommy and I hate you, I hate you! I'll take your Mommy and Bobby and Daddy! I'll take them, I'll take them and you'll be just like me, all alone! I hate you, I hate you!"

She was very pretty, he thought idly. And for some reason, he did not want to kill her. Whether it was that she was possibly amusing or surprising or what, he didn't know. "Sit down little girl. I did not kill your parents." "You lie!" she roared - or at least, attempted to. He pinned her arms at her sides and lifted her up, putting her a distance away so that her kicking legs would not reach him.

"No, little girl. No. I just found them here. That's all. I found them. I am sorry." "You lie." But it was weaker this time, unsure. He was very persuasive, he knew. Besides, she was only a little girl. "It's true, darling. I saw the man who killed them leave. I am so very sorry." "You - you lie." And she started crying. Something inside of him twisted and he held her closer. "Shh." She cried very strangely - as if she didn't know how to. He liked her very much. Although he didn't know why. A puzzle. He thought about it for a moment. He always had liked puzzles.

"I'm so sorry," he murmured again, almost meaning it. He stroked her hair. It was very soft and he smelled it a bit. What was that? That sweet, sweet smell. He didn't know, but he liked it as well. She clung to him. No one had ever clung to him before. "I want my Bobby and Mommy and Daddy back. I want them back." She didn't sound sad when she said it; she sounded pitifully demanding.

Well he kenw what he wanted to do. He didn't even have to think about it. He wanted to keep her and look at her and pet her. Just for a while. Nothing more. Then, well he didn't know what. It didn't matter though. She was his now.

"Dear girl," he whispered.

"You can come with me. I'll take care of you. Good, good care of you." She didn't faint exactly - just slipped into unconsciousness.

He began to hum Over the Rainbow again.

**A/N: Hope the edited version was a lot better. The tweaks were, as I said, minor, but it's always the little things that count. **

**Please review. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Like a panda bear.**


	2. Mimic

**A/N: Hola.**

**Disclaimer: No.**

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Christine did not dream. Her mind was full of black, velvet sensations. Her Daddy had said that before: 'black, velvet sensations'. He'd said it once to describe something. But that was before. Before _what_ she didn't exactly know and didn't want to remember. It was wrong and scary and she was _not_ going to think of it.

When her eyes opened, she was lying on her Mommy's lap. She smelled the perfume that she wore on special occasions. It was stronger than usual, and marred with things less pleasant. Still, it was there! She started crying and hugging her legs. Of course she was still here! Her Mommy would never leave her! Of course, of course. Why had she thought that? Why had she felt that she would never return? That she would never see Daddy or Bobby or any of them anymore?

It was then that she realized that they were moving. They were in a car, one with too comfortable seats. It smelled of rot and dead animals. The windows looked like those kind on limos or on the President's car. She tugged at her Mommy's pants. Her body felt too sleepy to do anything else. The thought of moving was too much for her. "Mommy, who's driving?" When there was no asnwer, she began to become worried.

"I don't want to be here Mommy. I want to go _now_!" She felt like she had been zapped - like aluminum foil in the microwave. That feeling ran up and down her spine. Her voice began to mirror her panic.

"Mommy! Mommy! Mommy, who's driving? Where's Daddy and Bobby?" She screamed shrilly - her words jumbled together like they'd been into a blender.

Her head felt heavy when she raised it a bit. There was a man in the front and he was looking ahead, driving fluidly. He was dressed in all black, and white tinged the edge of the face that she couldn't see. She screamed at him - a wordless sound hurled like a curse.

He turned around and smiled at her, revealing perfect teeth. "Now! Take us home! Take us _home_!" Her Mommy wasn't moving and she smelled funny and she had gotten her sticky and she just wanted to go back _home_. And she would go home. They'd do it for her now. She'd make them. "Take me home!"

She was beginning to feel afraid. And her Mommy was supposed to be helping her, rescuing her. That's what she always did. But when she looked up at her Mommy, she was smiling. But it wasn't hers. It was something that made Christine freeze and cry. "Aren't you happy to see me, sweetie?" Her smile never moved. It would always be like that, always.

Christine's screams were frantic, frenzied, and raw. They permeated the still, rotting air of the car and the man in front smiled wider. The arms around her were covered in blood and she threw up. The vomit she choked on mingled with her tears and she just wanted to go home.

Only she couldn't. There was no home or no masked man. Not anymore. There was just her and this smiling Mommy that wasn't her Mommy at all.

This mommy with her arms that held on too tight. "Don't you love me?" Christine backed away and covered her ears.

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Barbra Mason was driving to Rosemary's, a resturaunt where she faithfully took all of her lunch breaks. The road was almost empty. She believed in going as the crow flies. Time saved money. And money... well money was money. The silver Altima in front of her, however, was taking its slow time and she had a schedule to stick to. And it was a schedule that didn't allow for slow-driving silver Altimas with tinted windows.

She prepared to deliver a few loud blows, but something stopped her. There was a faint sound that she was sure was coming from the offending car. It chilled her, and she decided that she could wait just a little bit more. After all, Rosemary's wasn't going anywhere.

"_Creepy_," she whispered conspiratorially, as if she would be punished for saying such a thing. It almost sounded as if a small child were screaming.

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Erik had maybe had a bit too much fun with this particular project. Of course he had had to get rid of the bodies. The police would either recieve the completed portrait, or nothing at all. And killing his little companion was out of the question, so incompletion was a sacrifice that had to be made.

As of late, he'd been studying the work of ancient witch doctors in Africa. Their work in the realm of spirits and conjuring up life in the used shells of the living was extremely fascinating, and this was a sort of homage to those masters. Besides, disposing of bodies was a tiring process.  
Why shouldn't he have a little fun with it?

He was almost giddy as thought up a little plan that would guarantee him something special. The father and the boy had gone in the trunk, wrapped hastily, but neatly in plastic. If the little girl saw the other bodies the moment she woke up, it would deny him a show that he was sure he would recieve. The mother, however, was most likely the body she was closest to.

It was pure luck that he'd spotted the half-empty bottle of lavendar perfume in the master bedroom. The state of its contents suggested that the woman had worn it quite often. This would be even better. It was probably an iconic scent in the mind of the girl. Children often associated such things with their parents.

He enjoyed finding the right pose for the two of them. Something maternal was what he had in mind. He finally decided to settle the child in her mother's lap. He wanted the mother to be looking down, almost smiling at her frightened daughter to comfort her.

A smile. The split-second decision to slice the mother's mouth from ear to ear came after he had finished putting the two in place. The task was completed quickly, but with an artistic flourish. Curvacious.

When the blood from the newly inflicted wound seeped onto the little girl's chest and into her hair, it was something to be cherished. He couldn't resist taking a picture. What irritated him, however, was the fact that somehow, none fell onto the little girl's face. It was as pure and angelic as before - the exact opposite of his own. _How predictable_, was his bitter thought.

This acidic mood came over him suddenly and vindictively, as most of his moods did. He always had been quick to change temper, even as a child. This attitude stayed with him as he traveled along on the backroads and less-frequently used pathways of the city. But the traveling in itself was a mild comfort.

It was important to go back home. He could always go _home_; it was the only constant in his life and the only thing that wouldn't run away from him. It was the only thing that _couldn't_ run away from him.

It was an awful risk not frequently changing cars for the first few hours, but the placement of the little girl and her dead mother was just too perfect to interfere with just yet. He would wait until she woke up. And now that he was in such a dark state of mind, the idea of toying with hers recieved new merit.

The drive was nice, relaxing almost. He didn't have anything to worry about, didn't fret about being captured. He hadn't been caught all these years, and he wouldn't now. Perhaps he would have been invincible, if it hadn't been for that foolish little girl in the back seat, wrapped in the dead woman's arms.

It was about an hour after they began driving that she began to shift. He listened carefully, his exceptional ears strained to hear any and every sound. More shifting. Then, crying and shuffling. He smiled slightly.

The little girl poured out jumbled, "Thank you's" and "I love you's" that she probably didn't even know she was emitting. It almost made him feel ... something unpleasant. He ignored it.

This pathetic display was followed by a few seconds of almost inaudible rustling. She was probably surveying her surroundings. Of course, she hadn't yet seen what condition her mother was in, or Erik was sure she would be screaming. The child began to pitifully wail and ask where the rest if of her family was.

_I'll show them to you later_, he wanted to say. But keeping quiet was a part of the game.

When she screamed at him, he turned to smile at her. That smile was the only explanation that she would get for the next five years. He was Erik, and he killed, and he tortured. And now she was his little girl, and she had to get used to these things.

When pleas for mercy or home or whatever it was for reached his ears, he knew by the tortured tone that she had discovered that she was lying with a corpse. A brilliant idea hit him. His mind instantly replayed the sound of the mother's voice - as much as he could get of it anyway. "Aren't you happy to see me, sweetie?" he mocked. He tried to make it more sinister.

The trapped animal sounds she was making told him that he'd done a wondrous job.

He heard retching.

"Don't you love me?"

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A/N: Review if you please. Deuces!


	3. Fairy Tale

**A/N: Hola heffas. **

**Disclaimer: Really now? **

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The Prince brought Christine into large, dark room. It was black and dark green. Like the forest behind her house. Thoughts of home bought on an onslaught of brutal images that made her cringe and hold onto Raoul tighter. She tried to think of The Prince instead. He was beautiful, and she felt better just looking at him.

He tried to place her on the bed, but she couldn't let him go. He had saved her. If he left, the monster would come back. He'd do to her what he did to her momm-

Pretend was a game that Christine liked to play at school with her best friend Angelica. It was fun and easy because Christine didn't have such a hard time believing in what wasn't really real. She would tell Angelica that it was almost better than real life. Now she wanted to pretend. She wanted to pretend that nothing had happened before this. Nothing before the Prince had even existed. It used to be very easy to believe. Maybe it would be now.

The Prince gave her a tired look, and she felt hurt. "You don't like me?" She felt that he didn't, but hoped that maybe he could pretend as well. Or that she was wrong.

Then he gave her that tired look again. Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes. "So it speaks," were his harsh words. Too harsh for his pretty face. "Do you mean me? Do you? Do you mean that I speak?" was her earnest reply.

Raoul sighed and gave his bed an indecisive look. He rarely used it now; he had been heavily influenced by Erik's habit of not sleeping often. That didn't mean he wanted someone else sleeping in it, however - particularly some little girl who smelled of blood and death. Of course, if the thing didn't get what it wanted, it might make a fuss. Erik would certainly not be pleased with that. He made a quick decision.

He gave the girl what he hoped was an earnest expression. "How would you like it if I drew you a bath, Christine? I'm sure it would help you to relax a bit." For a minute, the girl was thoughtful. Then she nodded her head, assured.

Raoul was finally able to sit the girl down, although she followed closely at his heels whenever he so much as breathed. He was torn between rolling his eyes and petting the top of her pretty little head.

He always had wanted a puppy when he was little.

The girl remained surprisingly quiet while he drew the bath, but when he was finished, she seemed to regain that almost haughty attitude that he had caught a glimpse of before. "I only use green or blue or purple wash cloths," she informed him. "And you have to get out while I take a bath because you're a boy." Then she quickly grabbed onto his trouser leg. "But you can wait outside the door. Just right outside, not far. You don't go far." Raoul tried to pry her off gently, lest she get upset.

She released him reluctantly, and he slipped out on silent feet. He closed the door behind him and sighed, rubbing his temples.

He had to admit that he was slightly impressed with her ability to "bounce back" mentally. Excluding her somewhat desperate attitude regarding himself, her mind seemed to be relatively stable. It was extraordinary. After all that she had seen (and he could only imagine how terrible Erik's work must appear to a naive child), he would have expected her to be curled up into a hysterical ball in a dark corner. He wondered idly how much it would take to break her hold on sanity.

Hurried images filled his mind, as if they knew that they had no time to stay there. Among them: Christine's little body stretched fitfully on a rack; Christine being dunked screaming and crying and choking into a tub full of ice; Christine with deep, ghoulish gashes peppering her tiny body; Christine with a haunting Black Dahlia smile.

Raoul was not above torturing a child. He had done it before. It was no different than doing it to a smaller, more irritating version of an adult. Only he knew that doing it to Christine was out of the question. He didn't have much motivation for it other than curiosity anyway. Sharp, twisted thoughts like these were merely habits borne of years of fantasies and the resulting executions. He could not shut this part of his mind off any more than he could go back in time and change the circumstances that had planted them. They were a part of him now. For good.

Yet again, they were out of the question for little Christine. There was Erik's apparent obsession to consider. Just thinking of his mentor's reactions earlier caused Raoul to see red. Ridiculous. All of this trouble over a little girl who hadn't even hit puberty yet. A horrible idea hit him that he had never even began to contemplate. What if Erik had ... romantic interests in the girl? He would never have thought it of Erik, but then again he hadn't predicted this little debacle either.

It wasn't that the idea disgusted him. No, Raoul's morals had been stretched and twisted almost until the point of nonexistence. It was just that if Erik did have other interests in this Christine, it would complicate things even further. She was ruining everything.

Ten years... Ten years they had been doing this - doing what they were meant to do. They had always helped and encouraged each other in this risky death dealing business, and now!

Raoul was shaking. He paced back and forth. Maybe he could convince him if he took a less direct approach. That alternative hadn't gone so well before.

Quietly, remembering the girl's words, he crept into the living room. A sickly, stomach-turning smell wafted through his nose. "Damn it."

Erik still hadn't gotten rid of the body of the old man. It lay in front of the sofa. "Ugh." He stepped over it with a slight jerk. For a moment, he paused to look around as he sometimes did.

Once, Raoul had found living in an underground home a novelty. Once, swept under the wing of melodramatic and grand delusions, he had found it a fortress and a symbol of what he had chosen to become.

This delusion had come crumbling down just like all the others. It had turned out that there were a substantial number of underground homes. There was nothing to be pleased about. His only comfort was that this one did have some notable differences. Most underground homes were actually very well-lit and open, but Erik despised such a concept and his architectural projects reflected it. He wanted hell. He wanted some sort of lair that he could "boil in his own sins" as he had put it.

There were few electrically based lamps while candles of various sizes dotted the entire place. It's inner structure was crude, but stable. Most of the rooms were so dark that one could barely make out the shape of the furniture. All of the floors (except those in the bathrooms and Raoul's room) were made of wood and covered in cheap, threadbare carpets.

Then there was the Blood Room. It wasn't hard to decipher how it had gotten its name. It was where Erik's art and Raoul's rage were cultivated. Raoul smirked, lost in the memories of how Erik had lost him_self_ in trying to make that room as perfectly suited to their activities as possible. It almost made him forget how angry he was.

Almost.

Erik wasn't there. He wasn't in his tomb of a room either and it wasn't likely that he had gone out again. Raoul sighed. The Blood Room. He really wasn't in the mood.

He was right. Erik was there, staring tensely (judging by the hunch of his shoulders) at the wall.

Despite himself, Raoul couldn't help admiring the room. It was a classic. It was a very large room, but so dark and so cluttered with Erik's various "artistic" devices, that one immediately felt closed in. A bookcase crowded with books on topics ranging from ancient Egyptian funeral rituals to voodoo to chemistry to religion settled in a corner, almost unnoticeable. There was a plethora of violent artwork covering all of the walls and some of the ceiling. _Saturn Devouring His Son _was the most prominent in the room. A 14x11 restoration was hung in the center of the back wall. _Judith Slaying Holofernes_ was also very noticeable.

As much as Raoul appreciated art, he found it all a bit overdone. Not to mention that the _Saturn_ restoration cost a fortune. Of course, he didn't find it quite as harmful when he had added _Things Fall Apart_ to the bunch.

He sighed. "Erik. I thought you would have killed her by now. Or at least gotten some more work done. She stinks." Raoul pointed angrily to Erik's latest little project. Her bound wrists attached her to the rope from which she hung. The rope itself was attached to one of the several iron rings in the middle of the room. Her feet almost hit the ground, but even if she stretched fully, they wouldn't reach.

She was a prostitute that Raoul had gotten in a few days ago, and she was hardly in prime condition. Deep gashes covered her legs and there was a particularly shallow one on her neck. Her peaches-and-cream skin was now a sickly blue, and her thin, almost nonexistent clothes were spotted with blood. The little makeup she wore was smeared with blood and tears, and she was crying through the tape on her mouth. Raoul had saved her for Erik, knowing of his conflicting hatred and attachment to women of that job line. Although now he wished that he had gotten rid of her himself. She made him angry. He'd tried to kiss her once, and she'd spat at him.

He'd broken her leg in return. It was swollen and bruised now, and its colouring was nasty.

A just punishment.

But Erik should have been done with this girl by now, even though he obviously hadn't done anything of much substance. There must have been something on his mind. In fact, he still hadn't turned around. He continued idly, absently, staring at the wall.

"I am going to tonight. I just feel that ... the right time hasn't come." Silence. Excluding, of course, the mild screams and sobs of the recently battered woman hanging from their ceiling.

"It's the girl isn't it?" Raoul burst out suddenly, forgetting his plan to take a less direct route.

Erik tensed even further.

"Do not start this."

"I am not the one who brought her here."

Erik erupted. He crossed the room in long, aggressive strides until he was face-to-face with Raoul.

"She stays! She stays! She's mine and she stays!"

Raoul scoffed, although he did back away slightly. "Alright. She stays. She stays. And you're going to raise her. She's going to be your daughter. You're going to love her and take care of her."

"That's right!"

"I have to wonder, though," spoke the part of Raoul that terribly hated to lose. "I do wonder if you want her as a daughter or a lover."

There was a pause before it happened.

Raoul hadn't even seen the razor. He hadn't seen Erik's arm strike out. But he heard Erik's roar, and he felt the sudden wave of burning pain in his cheek. He wasn't exactly unaware of the blood that gushed freely from his wound either.

He was suddenly on the floor, Erik on top of him. He knew that the other man's weight wasn't substantial, but all of a sudden, it felt very heavy. Although that could have been the fear talking. There was, after all, a razor digging ever so slightly into lily-white neck.

Erik's words were a jumbling, angry mess. His thoughts were worse. To think! That anyone could ever assume that he would ever want anything so pure for any other reason than the chance to adore up close. True, only hours ago, she had been an interesting project, but now. Now! No one would even think a disrespectful thought about her. He had his own little angel, right in his own little hell, and no one would come between that.

He'd gut them first.

Starting with Raoul. Before didn't matter. The strange comanionship they had shared didn't matter. He'd die here. Right now. Slowly.

Raoul had seen that look in Erik's eyes before, but he'd never thought that it would be directed at him. He knew what was coming, and as much as he had killed and tortured, he had never imagined how it would feel on the other end of the whole affair. He refused to die. He couldn't. He wasn't ready. Strangely, he knew there was only one thing that could get him out of this situation.

"Erik! ERIK! You can't do this! She doesn't love you! Not without me here! She'll die without me! Do you want to lose her? You will without me here! She'll die!"

Both men were completely still for a moment. Then, slowly, reluctantly, Erik's hold on Raoul withered and died. He stood up robotically. Without another word, stalked over to the now hysterical girl and removed the silencing tape, slitting her throat with one quick motion. She sputtered and flailed the leg that wasn't broken, but her body was already completely spent. Her gurgling didn't last long before she went limp.

"Get out."

Raoul didn't have to be told twice.

He got out. He ran out, just as... Christine's hysterical voice reached his ears. He hated her. Loathed her. Wanted her dead and buried and burned and beaten. Still, his hatred for her was nothing compared to what he felt for Erik.

The years of comfortable, subtle friendship had been forgotten. The line of companionship had been severed, and there was no going back. There was no rectification. There never had been for Raoul.

Erik had humiliated him, and he was done with that emotion. He had left it behind long ago. Facing it again was more painful than he would like to admit. For that, Erik had to suffer before he reached his assuredly tragic end.

Raoul slammed the door to his bedroom and the little parasite attached herself pathetically to his trouser leg, sobbing.

There was only one way to bring down Erik. And fuck it, if she would just shut up it would be so much easier to pretend that he didn't want her blood too.

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_**A/N: Whooooooooooooooooooooooooo. *tired sigh* Umph. I'm tired, but I feel good. That 'umph' you just read? That's what I put into this story ya'll, and I hope you enjoyed it. ; ) But of course, if you don't leave a review, I'll never know...**_

_**Oh, and the paintings mentioned aren't hard to find (excluding Things Fall Apart). That particular piece is by Cindy Wright... That heffa got some issues, but I like her. ; )**_


	4. Unhealthy

**A/N: Hola heffas. **

**Disclaimer: Really now? **

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The Prince brought Christine into large, dark room. It was black and dark green. Like the forest behind her house. Thoughts of home bought on an onslaught of brutal images that made her cringe and hold onto Raoul tighter. She tried to think of The Prince instead. He was beautiful, and she felt better just looking at him.

He tried to place her on the bed, but she couldn't let him go. He had saved her. If he left, the monster would come back. He'd do to her what he did to her momm-

Pretend was a game that Christine liked to play at school with her best friend Angelica. It was fun and easy because Christine didn't have such a hard time believing in what wasn't really real. She would tell Angelica that it was almost better than real life. Now she wanted to pretend. She wanted to pretend that nothing had happened before this. Nothing before the Prince had even existed. It used to be very easy to believe. Maybe it would be now.

The Prince gave her a tired look, and she felt hurt. "You don't like me?" She felt that he didn't, but hoped that maybe he could pretend as well. Or that she was wrong.

Then he gave her that tired look again. Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes. "So it speaks," were his harsh words. Too harsh for his pretty face. "Do you mean me? Do you? Do you mean that I speak?" was her earnest reply.

Raoul sighed and gave his bed an indecisive look. He rarely used it now; he had been heavily influenced by Erik's habit of not sleeping often. That didn't mean he wanted someone else sleeping in it, however - particularly some little girl who smelled of blood and death. Of course, if the thing didn't get what it wanted, it might make a fuss. Erik would certainly not be pleased with that. He made a quick decision.

He gave the girl what he hoped was an earnest expression. "How would you like it if I drew you a bath, Christine? I'm sure it would help you to relax a bit." For a minute, the girl was thoughtful. Then she nodded her head, assured.

Raoul was finally able to sit the girl down, although she followed closely at his heels whenever he so much as breathed. He was torn between rolling his eyes and petting the top of her pretty little head.

He always had wanted a puppy when he was little.

The girl remained surprisingly quiet while he drew the bath, but when he was finished, she seemed to regain that almost haughty attitude that he had caught a glimpse of before. "I only use green or blue or purple wash cloths," she informed him. "And you have to get out while I take a bath because you're a boy." Then she quickly grabbed onto his trouser leg. "But you can wait outside the door. Just right outside, not far. You don't go far." Raoul tried to pry her off gently, lest she get upset.

She released him reluctantly, and he slipped out on silent feet. He closed the door behind him and sighed, rubbing his temples.

He had to admit that he was slightly impressed with her ability to "bounce back" mentally. Excluding her somewhat desperate attitude regarding himself, her mind seemed to be relatively stable. It was extraordinary. After all that she had seen (and he could only imagine how terrible Erik's work must appear to a naive child), he would have expected her to be curled up into a hysterical ball in a dark corner. He wondered idly how much it would take to break her hold on sanity.

Hurried images filled his mind, as if they knew that they had no time to stay there. Among them: Christine's little body stretched fitfully on a rack; Christine being dunked screaming and crying and choking into a tub full of ice; Christine with deep, ghoulish gashes peppering her tiny body; Christine with a haunting Black Dahlia smile.

Raoul was not above torturing a child. He had done it before. It was no different than doing it to a smaller, more irritating version of an adult. Only he knew that doing it to Christine was out of the question. He didn't have much motivation for it other than curiosity anyway. Sharp, twisted thoughts like these were merely habits borne of years of fantasies and the resulting executions. He could not shut this part of his mind off any more than he could go back in time and change the circumstances that had planted them. They were a part of him now. For good.

Yet again, they were out of the question for little Christine. There was Erik's apparent obsession to consider. Just thinking of his mentor's reactions earlier caused Raoul to see red. Ridiculous. All of this trouble over a little girl who hadn't even hit puberty yet. A horrible idea hit him that he had never even began to contemplate. What if Erik had ... romantic interests in the girl? He would never have thought it of Erik, but then again he hadn't predicted this little debacle either.

It wasn't that the idea disgusted him. No, Raoul's morals had been stretched and twisted almost until the point of nonexistence. It was just that if Erik did have other interests in this Christine, it would complicate things even further. She was ruining everything.

Ten years... Ten years they had been doing this - doing what they were meant to do. They had always helped and encouraged each other in this risky death dealing business, and now!

Raoul was shaking. He paced back and forth. Maybe he could convince him if he took a less direct approach. That alternative hadn't gone so well before.

Quietly, remembering the girl's words, he crept into the living room. A sickly, stomach-turning smell wafted through his nose. "Damn it."

Erik still hadn't gotten rid of the body of the old man. It lay in front of the sofa. "Ugh." He stepped over it with a slight jerk. For a moment, he paused to look around as he sometimes did.

Once, Raoul had found living in an underground home a novelty. Once, swept under the wing of melodramatic and grand delusions, he had found it a fortress and a symbol of what he had chosen to become.

This delusion had come crumbling down just like all the others. It had turned out that there were a substantial number of underground homes. There was nothing to be pleased about. His only comfort was that this one did have some notable differences. Most underground homes were actually very well-lit and open, but Erik despised such a concept and his architectural projects reflected it. He wanted hell. He wanted some sort of lair that he could "boil in his own sins" as he had put it.

There were few electrically based lamps while candles of various sizes dotted the entire place. It's inner structure was crude, but stable. Most of the rooms were so dark that one could barely make out the shape of the furniture. All of the floors (except those in the bathrooms and Raoul's room) were made of wood and covered in cheap, threadbare carpets.

Then there was the Blood Room. It wasn't hard to decipher how it had gotten its name. It was where Erik's art and Raoul's rage were cultivated. Raoul smirked, lost in the memories of how Erik had lost him_self_ in trying to make that room as perfectly suited to their activities as possible. It almost made him forget how angry he was.

Almost.

Erik wasn't there. He wasn't in his tomb of a room either and it wasn't likely that he had gone out again. Raoul sighed. The Blood Room. He really wasn't in the mood.

He was right. Erik was there, staring tensely (judging by the hunch of his shoulders) at the wall.

Despite himself, Raoul couldn't help admiring the room. It was a classic. It was a very large room, but so dark and so cluttered with Erik's various "artistic" devices, that one immediately felt closed in. A bookcase crowded with books on topics ranging from ancient Egyptian funeral rituals to voodoo to chemistry to religion settled in a corner, almost unnoticeable. There was a plethora of violent artwork covering all of the walls and some of the ceiling. _Satan Devouring His Son _was the most prominent in the room. A 14x11 restoration was hung in the center of the back wall. _Judith Slaying Holofernes_ was also very noticeable.

As much as Raoul appreciated art, he found it all a bit overdone. Not to mention that the _Satan_ restoration cost a fortune. Of course, he didn't find it quite as harmful when he had added _Things Fall Apart_ to the bunch.

He sighed. "Erik. I thought you would have killed her by now. Or at least gotten some more work done. She stinks." Raoul pointed angrily to Erik's latest little project. Her bound wrists attached her to the rope from which she hung. The rope itself was attached to one of the several iron rings in the middle of the room. Her feet almost hit the ground, but even if she stretched fully, they wouldn't reach.

She was a prostitute that Raoul had gotten in a few days ago, and she was hardly in prime condition. Deep gashes covered her legs and there was a particularly shallow one on her neck. Her peaches-and-cream skin was now a sickly blue, and her thin, almost nonexistent clothes were spotted with blood. The little makeup she wore was smeared with blood and tears, and she was crying through the tape on her mouth. Raoul had saved her for Erik, knowing of his conflicting hatred and attachment to women of that job line. Although now he wished that he had gotten rid of her himself. She made him angry. He'd tried to kiss her once, and she'd spat at him.

He'd broken her leg in return. It was swollen and bruised now, and its colouring was nasty.

A just punishment.

But Erik should have been done with this girl by now, even though he obviously hadn't done anything of much substance. There must have been something on his mind. In fact, he still hadn't turned around. He continued idly, absently, staring at the wall.

"I am going to tonight. I just feel that ... the right time hasn't come." Silence. Excluding, of course, the mild screams and sobs of the recently battered woman hanging from their ceiling.

"It's the girl isn't it?" Raoul burst out suddenly, forgetting his plan to take a less direct route.

Erik tensed even further.

"Do not start this."

"I am not the one who brought her here."

Erik erupted. He crossed the room in long, aggressive strides until he was face-to-face with Raoul.

"She stays! She stays! She's mine and she stays!"

Raoul scoffed, although he did back away slightly. "Alright. She stays. She stays. And you're going to raise her. She's going to be your daughter. You're going to love her and take care of her."

"That's right!"

"I have to wonder, though," spoke the part of Raoul that terribly hated to lose. "I do wonder if you want her as a daughter or a lover."

There was a pause before it happened.

Raoul hadn't even seen the razor. He hadn't seen Erik's arm strike out. But he heard Erik's roar, and he felt the sudden wave of burning pain in his cheek. He wasn't exactly unaware of the blood that gushed freely from his wound either.

He was suddenly on the floor, Erik on top of him. He knew that the other man's weight wasn't substantial, but all of a sudden, it felt very heavy. Although that could have been the fear talking. There was, after all, a razor digging ever so slightly into lily-white neck.

Erik's words were a jumbling, angry mess. His thoughts were worse. To think! That anyone could ever assume that he would ever want anything so pure for any other reason than the chance to adore up close. True, only hours ago, she had been an interesting project, but now. Now! No one would even think a disrespectful thought about her. He had his own little angel, right in his own little hell, and no one would come between that.

He'd gut them first.

Starting with Raoul. Before didn't matter. The strange comanionship they had shared didn't matter. He'd die here. Right now. Slowly.

Raoul had seen that look in Erik's eyes before, but he'd never thought that it would be directed at him. He knew what was coming, and as much as he had killed and tortured, he had never imagined how it would feel on the other end of the whole affair. He refused to die. He couldn't. He wasn't ready. Strangely, he knew there was only one thing that could get him out of this situation.

"Erik! ERIK! You can't do this! She doesn't love you! Not without me here! She'll die without me! Do you want to lose her? You will without me here! She'll die!"

Both men were completely still for a moment. Then, slowly, reluctantly, Erik's hold on Raoul withered and died. He stood up robotically. Without another word, stalked over to the now hysterical girl and removed the silencing tape, slitting her throat with one quick motion. She sputtered and flailed the leg that wasn't broken, but her body was already completely spent. Her gurgling didn't last long before she went limp.

"Get out."

Raoul didn't have to be told twice.

He got out. He ran out, just as... Christine's hysterical voice reached his ears. He hated her. Loathed her. Wanted her dead and buried and burned and beaten. Still, his hatred for her was nothing compared to what he felt for Erik.

The years of comfortable, subtle friendship had been forgotten. The line of companionship had been severed, and there was no going back. There was no rectification. There never had been for Raoul.

Erik had humiliated him, and he was done with that emotion. He had left it behind long ago. Facing it again was more painful than he would like to admit. For that, Erik had to suffer before he reached his assuredly tragic end.

Raoul slammed the door to his bedroom and the little parasite attached herself pathetically to his trouser leg, sobbing.

There was only one way to bring down Erik. And fuck it, if she would just shut up it would be so much easier to pretend that he didn't want her blood too.

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_**A/N: Whooooooooooooooooooooooooo. *tired sigh* Umph. I'm tired, but I feel good. That 'umph' you just read? That's what I put into this story ya'll, and I hope you enjoyed it. ; ) But of course, if you don't leave a review, I'll never know...**_

_**Oh, and the paintings mentioned aren't hard to find (excluding Things Fall Apart). That particular piece is by Cindy Wright... That heffa got some issues, but I like her. ; )**_


	5. Marionette

A/N: Yo. I know I've been horrible for not updating in so long. Love me anyway. Please do me a favor ya'll and go check out "Monsieur" by EmanuelleG. It's brilliance, and I just started AS EMANUELLE'S OFFICIAL BETA! I FEEL SPECIAL! I hope she doesn't mind me pimping out her story like this.

Oh, and for God's sake, 'I love you' is not the same as 'I'm in love with you; let's go do the nasty'. For future reference of course.

Disclaimer: Disclaimed.

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"Christ," Raoul muttered, trying to pry himself away from a sobbing Christine. As if it wasn't enough that the little parasite wouldn't let go of him (and was making such an awful lot of noise), she was stark naked.

Absolutely brilliant.

But he had to remember that he needed her. He needed her affection and her trust. That thought would be one to anchor him down for years to come.

"You left!" she shrieked, not easing her grip on him. "You left! I told you not to leave! Not to go far you left! You left!" She was a heaving, sobbing mess. Those pretty blue eyes weren't so pretty anymore. They were red and exhausted and panicked. Her still-dripping hair was a tangled atrocity, and her little body convulsed.

He pulled her away from him, wishing for more distance. "Christine, hush darling." The honeyed words dripped from his pretty lips, smooth and poisoned. He thought of Juliet's famous dagger and grinned.

His smile vanished when Christine's eyes widened impossibly further. She had caught sight of the slight gash Erik had made. She made a strangled noise. "Christine!" he hissed, exasperation building up inside of him. "He hurt you! He hurt you!" She shook her head. "You'll go too! You'll go! He'll take you too!" She was falling apart.

"Christine. Christine, darling." He lifted her chin gently, so that he could look into her eyes. Her crying began to ebb slowly. "I'm not gone. I'm not leaving." His voice was calm, controlled. "I apologize, but I had to go make sure that the door was locked. This cut," he gestured to his wound with only a slight jerk, trying not to dwell on his anger. Her lips trembled and she began to emit a series of short, quiet scream-like noises.

"This tiny little cut I received from a little accident, entirely my own." His lies were calculated, knowing that right now she was as impressionable as she ever would be.

It was the time to attach the puppet strings.

Several "absolute truths" needed to be established inside of her mind. Once planted, she would never deny them, and would always adhere to them - whether she knew it or not. They would rule her.

_He_ would rule her.

The first would be a potent combination of fear and hatred of Erik. Reason to want his destruction. She should always know her enemy.

"The Monster is evil Christine. Very evil. He took you Christine. He took you away, and your family, did he not?" At his declaration, the little girl in his arms bleated pitifully, confirming what he already knew, and reminding him of a documentary he had watched on lambs at the slaughterhouse.

The second truth would be the certainty of his own personal safety. "Hush darling, hush. The Monster cannot hurt me." He dropped the words with all the finality he wanted them to carry. "He _cannot_ hurt me, Christine."

Then there was the one that would insure his hold on her, and the only one that was actually true:

"He cannot hurt me, so long as you love me and protect me. With your love, he can _never ever ever hurt me_. It's up to you, darling. Protect me by doing as I say. Can you do that?"

She nodded fiercely without a second thought, desperate to keep him with her at any cost. She would do anything for him, and he could see it in her eyes.

There was one more.

"It's just us Christine. It's just me and you. I'm all you have. There's only me. Without me, there's no one, do you understand? No one else can be for you as I am."

Once more she nodded, looking at him with righteously determined eyes, and he felt a surge of triumph. He would win this.

* * *

The next morning (at least it felt like morning) Christine didn't wake up right away. She was in that little go-between place; the one between Dreaming and Waking. There were memories there of last night.

The Prince - Raoul, he had told her to call him Raoul - had been very kind to her. He had given her a big white shirt to wear. Then he had let her hug him and smell him and sing to him. She knew that he didn't love her very much now, but she could win him. She had always been able to win anyone once she put her mind to it.

Everyone used to love her.

She didn't want to think about who 'everyone' used to be.

But Raoul was with her now. She could be happy. She only needed Raoul now. He had said so.

Her stomach rumbled with dissatisfaction, and she woke up alone.

Panic came suddenly then.

Christine had had to beg Raoul to let her sleep in bed with him last night. She remembered lying next to his stiff body, trying not to grab his hand for comfort.

Now he wasn't here.

She began to hyperventilate and climbed with clumsy, frantic limbs out of the too large bed.

He wasn't in the bathroom.

Her chest hurt. It felt like it was being squeezed by something that wasn't really there.

Phantom hands. Unforgiving hands.

Oh, but she _had _to find him. Had to, had to, had to, had to.

The jagged thought was stuck on repeat, and she could focus on nothing else.

Christine stumbled several times on her way out of Raoul's room.

It was so DARK. So dark. She couldn't see anything, couldn't find him. Couldn't find him.

_Had to, had to. _It smelled in this dark place. Rotting. Memories of bad things pushed at the corners of her mind, but she pushed them right back away.

She had to find him.

_Had to, had to._

There was a light. A faint light that was far away, but he would be there. She had to go. Had to go find him.

_Had to, had to. _She was running and opening a heavy door and then she saw a nightmare place.

Thoughts of Raoul drifted away like smoke as she stood there. She thought of Aladdin at the entrance of that magic cave. She thought of Bluebeard's foolish wives. She heard a woman's, indistinct from Christine's suddenly failing memory. "Curiosity killed the cat, honey." Fatalistic feelings flooded her, but she ignored them. Raoul was here. Determined eyes wide, she slowly walked into the room.

It was so big. A dark cave with looming ceilings and walls so far apart that, despite the obvious clutter, the room felt limitless. She pushed her feet a few steps forward, feeling as if she were drifting through space.

She stopped when she saw the painting, gasping with all the needed melodramatic flair.

It was horrible. Horrible, horrible. Paintings like this weren't supposed to exist. Only paintings of old kings and queens and parks and libraries and pianos. Not this abomination of a monster eating a man. No, not eating. There was a word for what he was doing. _Devouring_.

And this room - it felt as if it were _devouring _her. Raoul's face suddenly came to mind, and she squished her eyes closed. It didn't matter. She had to find Raoul.

_Had to, had to. _She walked forward unsteadily. The faint light that she had seen from the other dark room was brighter, but still fuzzy. It was still a good distance in front of her. Her trek was interrupted when she slipped in something and fell solidly onto her back.

In mid-air, she had given a hoarse screech. Her voice too raw and worn to give anything else. The pain in her back was bad. Very bad. But she could ignore it. She could do anything for Raoul.

It was then that the sticky mess on her back and arms truly came to her attention. She sat up, and tried to use her shirt to wipe off some of the stick from her arms. When she saw the stain on her starch white shirt, she started giggling. It wasn't her fault. She couldn't help it really. It wasn't funny. She _knew _that.

Blood never was.

* * *

Raoul washed his hands in bleach water, trying to get rid of the feeling of dead man's flesh. Erik still had not removed the bodies of the hooker and the old man by the time he'd woken up. For the first time since his training days, he had had to take care of that little matter himself. The possibility that Erik wouldn't take out the trash again enraged him, but he tried to convince himself that this little rebellious period would be over soon. Erik just needed to blow off some steam.

He had wanted to move out of this damned hole after last night, but it was nonsensical of course. He needed to be with Christine to get Erik, and Erik needed to be (or thought that he did) with Christine. Besides, he refused to give an inch. He was not weak, and leaving would assuredly allude to that quality he so despised. He would not have Erik thinking that he was weak.

Not even for a moment.

Just then, Erik came through the door.

He was an absolute mess.

The shoulder-length black hair that was thin and thick all at once was frizzed, and a spot of blood the size of a bottle top stained it. He was breathing heavily, and sweat poured from underneath his ivory mask. The thin body that housed such unbelievably murderous energy was shuddering.

Raoul would have thought that he would collapse into himself had not those eerie cat-yellow eyes not shown such obvious and total control. Without missing a beat, he spoke with only the slightest of shudders.

"Where is Erik's little girl?"

They both heard the screech then. It was not very loud, but certainly audible.

Erik ran from the room with an overdone "Christine!"

Raoul released a stream of expletives that he had forgotten that he knew.

He followed.

Of course the little parasite had found her way into The Blood Room.

Last night had been a parade of lies. Lies had not only seeped into his every gesture, every smile, every pretty, pretty word. They had been the foundation for those acts.

He _hated _Christine. He had found his place in the world, where he was accepted and where he was, if not appreciated, then understood. She had destroyed it all with a flash of her big blue eyes. As if he had needed any more evidence that all women were trouble. He had learned long ago that they were only good for one thing, and even then they wanted to act as if they were too righteous for that.

_Damn. _Strained screams reached his ears just before he reached the room. Erik was kneeling over a frightened Christine. She had fallen into the pool of blood left by the hooker from last night. Erik was desperately trying

"Hush, little angel! I only wish to help you!"

But Christine's screams only increased in volume. "Get away from me! Raoul! Raoul! Please help me! Raoul please! The monster! Raoul help me!" She sobbed, crawling away from Erik.

Erik was ever-humble and patient. He wanted her to understand. He knew that she thought of him as a monster, but he could change that. She only had to see that he loved her. He had to make her see...

He grabbed her arms and tried to pull her to him. "I won't hurt you Christine. I won't, I promise. I love you. You're my little girl."

She kicked out, screaming forbidden words.

"I don't love you! I love Raoul!"

Raoul shrunk back into the shadows.

_Stupid girl! She'll get me killed! _The change in Erik was immediate. Not only did he tense, but the air around him seemed to follow suit. He was still for a moment, and Christine, unsure of what was happening, did not move. Her eyes widened until the point that Raoul thought they would pop out. There was a tense almost-silence.

The faint _plop! _of dripping water was the only sound to interrupt.

Erik pulled Christine by her bloodied hair. It was such a surprise that she didn't even scream at first. There had been no dramatic roar or any other indicative sound. There was only a harsh, determined tug that sent shocks of pain through her.

"Raoul! Raoul _please! Please Raoul!_"

Raoul tried to leave discreetly. He'd seen that look before. Only twice, but it had been enough. But Erik's seething hiss stopped him.

"No! You _stay_."

Erik loomed over Christine, who had been too distracted to take notice of Raoul's cowardly behavior.

She would never forget him then with his hot, heavy breath and glazed tiger eyes. She couldn't breathe from fear. "You are Erik's little girl. You _are _Erik's little girl." He dragged her again, mumbling "Erik's little girl" all the way.

She kicked and scratched and fought with all the uninhibited wildness of a possessed woman. She'd never felt fear like this kind. It was a wild animal fear, and all she could think was that she had to get away.

_Had to, had to. _The rest was mostly a blur, as if some part of her brain had been shut off.

It was a blur when that light she had noticed earlier came closer and closer.

It was a blur when it shone on a dead man in the tub.

Dead man, dirty man, bloody man. Tub of blood. Blur. Still a blur.

But then, then Christine could hear and see this little blond girl screaming. The little girl had blood all over her arms and her hair and her shirt. Only Christine didn't know who the girl was. She was an alien. She felt sorry for the alien.

The alien was being shaken by a monster. It was a crazy monster who kept yelling, "You are Erik's little girl!" And the monster had a sharp thing and he dipped it in the blood and then he started carving something into the little alien girl's arm. And there was pain, and Christine wondered if _she _was the little alien girl who was screaming, because the pain made her want to scream too. But she discarded that thought because she was confused, and was wondering if she was even Christine, much less the alien girl.

The alien was looking at her arm and crying and screaming when she saw the crude letter there.

_E. _Shaky 'E', twig-like 'E'.  
_  
_The monster had carved an 'E' in the little alien's arm.

Christine closed her eyes, and the almost-pain became pain, and she opened her eyes.

_R. _She wasn't screaming wasn't she? Was that the alien?

_I. _Or _was_ she? There was blood, she knew. There was blood streaming from the little blond alien's arm. But maybe she was the alien.

_K. _And then she looked at the word on the arm, and she knew that there was no little blond alien. That was her arm, and she knew exactly who she was.

She was _Erik's Little Girl_.

She said so out loud, and the monster, who became a central figure again, relaxed. He smiled at her even though he was shaking.

Then he petted her hair, his breathing still heavy.

"Yes. You are Erik's Little Girl."

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading. Preciate it. : )


	6. Goddesses, Angels, and Little Lost Girls

**A/N: GREETINGS ALL! In this chapter, Christine's personality is dramatically different (supressed). Not her fault.****WARNING (even though I wish it wasn't necessary): This chapter contains some unpleasant things. I don't mean the usual, 'let's get together and knock off a few people'. So don't complain. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own this... MANNN! (That's a _Friday_ reference people. Very corny, but still.) Tee hee. I just love me some Smokey.**

* * *

The slight scrape of plastic silverware was all that could be heard. The three of them were in the kitchen eating at a cheap wooden table that Erik had purchased only days after Christine's arrival. He had insisted that they all eat together every night. He wanted a family, like a normal man. He had purchased several cans of spaghetti and meatballs. It was something that other families ate all the time.

Raoul sat across from Christine, his body and facial expression tense. He was always bitter or angry now. His ambition to see Erik on his knees, begging forgiveness was what truly sustained him. Even now, the thought of that moment made him give a small smile. He toyed with his spaghetti, not really hungry. He never was. All he seemed to be capable of these days was planning.

Planning, planning, planning, planning, planning. Sleeping and eating were liabilities - unfortunate things that kept him from focusing his entire attention on what was important.

It was consuming.

There were only two things that really diverted him. He found it ironic that one of them was Christine.

When he was finished with Erik, Raoul would make sure that he'd never have to act again. He'd done it his whole life and was so _sick_ of pretending. He wanted to smile for _his _enjoyment. He wanted to speak freely without fear of punishment or rejection. He'd be his own master; not a puppet for someone else's desires. And -

"Is there something wrong Raoul?" Erik's voice was cold. Raoul knew that he didn't really care if something was wrong; he was just mildly curious. He didn't care about anything excluding Christine. The parasite was his world and worry, and there was no room for anything else.

Raoul found himself a bit more confused by his stance on the disaster that was Christine. On the one hand, she was Delilah. She had single-handedly and completely bewitched the most terrifying man that he had ever met, and it disgusted and repelled him. It forced him see that his own judgement had been lacking in regards to Erik; he wasn't all-powerful after all. The fact that she had ruined the only chance he had had at acceptance didn't help either. And that's all he had wanted. Not happiness or love. Those were things he had no real use for. He just wanted acceptance, and she had stolen that from him.

But he had to admit, she had been so useful to him in other ways.

Erik's suddenly hard eyes alerted him to the fact that he still had not answered his question. "Nothing's wrong, Erik. I was just thinking." The younger man's voice was carefully modulated. As always. His emotions were never on display for anyone.

Erik disregarded him and turned his attention to Christine, carefully watching every move she made. He had to watch her, had to make sure that nothing happened to her.

She pretended not to notice the glare of his tiger-eyes. She just kept going like the little wind-up doll that she was.

Christine picked out a good portion of canned spaghetti. Erik didn't want her to waste away. Christine chewed thoroughly. Erik didn't want her to have indigestion. Christine didn't waste a spoonful. Erik said that it wasn't good etiquette.

Erik, Erik, Erik, Erik. His words chased themselves around in her head, bubbling over. Everything he told her was an innate law or commandment. He was a god - a terrible, absolute figure straight out of the ancient myths. She obeyed his every word, spoken or unspoken.

There wasn't an ounce of resistance left in her. He didn't need to convince her any further that she belonged to him, that she was Erik's Little Girl in every way. Every word he said, every look he gave her, every bruise that smeared her skin like an avenging, haywire blush - it all meant one thing.

The carved 'ERIK' in her arm burned quite often.

When Erik had spoken to Raoul, her head shot up to look at the man that she had once so adoringly called The Prince. She knew how she felt about Erik. She belonged to him forever and always. The damage was done, and she didn't have the willpower to even wish it was any other way, and didn't have the presence of mind to know that there _could_ be any other way.

He was to be obeyed or bad things came.

But with Raoul, all of her feelings were conflicted. She loved him. She couldn't help it. Although she never said it aloud or even thought about it specifically, he was still her prince. He had saved her. He was all she had and he loved her and she needed him and - and...

He hurt her. Christine wanted to burrow inside of herself, like the flesh-eating scarabs Raoul told her about. Sometimes she dreamed that she would devour herself from the inside. She always tried not to think about that or about what Raoul did to her. She wanted to focus on how good he was. She wanted to focus on his pretty blue eyes and sun-soft hair and rare smiles.

But she couldn't forget. She couldn't stop thinking of how much it hurt her. Not that it was his fault. It wasn't. Really. He just loved her was all. It wasn't his fault. It was her fault. The first time he came, she should have done something. It was her fault, her fault, all hers. Maybe she really was a whore.

Christine used to try to blur those memories, so that she'd escape them just like all of her other old ones. But she'd given up a long time ago, realizing that they'd always be clear and sharp.

"Angel!" Erik's voice made her jump. He was staring at her with those horrible yellow eyes. "Yes, Erik?" she asked, her voice so soft it was almost impossible to hear. She rarely talked louder than that. In this house, she was to be seen and touched only - a mute goddess to be worshipped and violated in turn.

"Are you alright Angel?" "Yes, Erik." "Don't lie to me!" So very quickly, his voice had become a roar. She _did _shrink away then. "I'm not lying. I'm fine. I promise." There was a pause. "I think it's time for you to go to bed," he said, his voice more gentle. She rose immediately, leaving for Raoul's old room. Erik always believed her when she made promises.

He said that angels couldn't break their vows.

* * *

Christine drew a bath. The water was hot to the point of scalding, but it felt cleansing in a way. She needed cleansing, she thought as she sat there hugging herself. And it was nice to be hugged for no other reason than to recieve comfort. She'd almost forgotten what it felt like.

She got out and toweled off, slipping on a long white shirt. Erik only allowed her to wear white clothes. He said angels didn't wear anything else. Only she didn't want to be an angel. She just wanted to be a girl. Raoul's face filled her mind, and her fists clenched. No. Not a girl. She just wanted to be a person. She hoped that Raoul would stay away from her tonight. If Erik ever caught him, he would -

She didn't want to think about it.

She got in bed and turned her bedside lamp off. Not five minutes passed before her attempts to sleep were interrupted by Erik. He burst through her door, his eyes immediately focusing on her. "Angel," he whispered. His voice was contrite and adoring all at once. She shrunk against the headboard, knowing what was coming next.

_Go away, _she wanted to tell him.

_Leave me _alone.

He rushed to her bedside and knelt down. His face was bowed, his hands clasped in prayer. "Angel, I'm so sorry. So sorry for what I've done. You must forgive me." His mask shone in the darkness, the only part of him that was visible. She didn't know why he wore it, and was eternally curious. But he always got so angry when she questioned him about it. And Erik really _was _a monster when he was angry.

He reached out a cold, bony hand that she knew would be damp with sweat. Shaking, she grasped it. "Thy ... sins are forgiven thee," she whispered. Erik's grip tightened to the point of pain at her words, and he began to weep. Goosebumps rippled along here skin as he moaned and wailed unintelligible, frightening things. What was worse was that she began to understand them.

"I don't deserve you Angel! Erik has been horrible, do you know? Erik has been horrible! And he sees things Angel! He sees horrible things! He has told you, has he not? He has told you of the fire children and the bad things they say! The bad things they tell him to do! Some of the bad things to you! They are jealous because you are pure and they are not. They want you to burn too, but Erik will not let them, will not let them. You are _Erik's _angel."

His words began to run together again after that.

Christine cried a few silent tears, but held her tongue just the same. Eventually, his sobs ebbed away. He released her hand and dragged her still-trembling form closer to him. His fingernails dug into her skin. She knew from experience that there would be tiny dabs of blood there later, but didn't complain. No good would come of it.

"Tell me you love me, Angel." "I - I love you Erik." "_Promise _me."

"_Promise _me that you love me." Only Erik could give that perfect balance of threatening and pleading.

And of course, she didn't want to say it. She had never liked to lie.

"I promise Erik." Her voice was even smaller than usual. "You promise what Angel? Tell me." The desperation in his voice repelled her.

She swallowed again, imagining that she was signing the contract that would give away her soul.

"I promise that I love you Erik." He stared at her and twisted her hair around his fingers. She wished that she was invisible. She wished that no one would look at her.

"You're beautiful, Angel." She nodded, trying to loosen his grip. It didn't help. Erik gazed up at her with worshipping eyes. "I stole you, Angel. But you don't mind, do you?"

"No, Erik," she whispered. Erik shook his head. "No. No, you don't mind because you love me. You love me."

"Yes." There was a brief silence. Then he stood up to go. He kissed her forehead. "Sleep well, Angel."

Impossible.

Erik did this frequently during the week - always at night. He never specified exactly what his "sins" were, and she didn't question him. She was sure that it had to do with the heavy garbage bags that he and Raoul frequently carried out. And Erik would always lock her in her room on certain days, never explaining why.

She didn't ask. She wasn't sure if she wanted the answer. Because she might not have seen what happened, but she could hear the thumps and muffled noises.

Nightmares were frequent things.

Laying there, she heard nothing. It was so still in this place. It always was. Erik and Raoul were always deathly quiet. Only on the days when Erik made her stay in her room, did she hear any noises whatsoever. And they were all muffled noises that came from That Room. She didn't know what else to call it; she'd rather not think of it in general. It brought back horrible, blurred memories that she knew were important. Only she didn't know why.

There was so much she didn't know. Secrets - they were all she knew. She felt as if there might have been a time when she would have reveled in the mystery. There might have been a time when she would have felt like a detective and felt obliged to solve them. There might have been a time when she would be determined to make sure that things were right for her, because she was important.

But if that time existed, it was a long time ago. Christine was a different girl now.

_Erik's. _

She fell asleep then.

* * *

Later on, Christine heard him come in. Maybe she heard him before that. Maybe she didn't really sleep at all. Maybe she just drifted.

But she heard him all the same.

"Raoul, please," she whispered, not meaning to. She hadn't opened her mouth since that very first time. Now she just cried or turned her head or pretended she wasn't really there.

And then he was leaning over her, his ice blue eyes shining with sincerity. "I love you. I love you and you love me. It's okay. I promise." It wasn't okay. She knew it. She just did. It didn't feel okay. She didn't _want_ to be _touched _everywhere. She didn't like Raoul's searching hands and eager eyes and dry kisses. She didn't like feeling like a used toy when he was finished_._ She didn't want this.

But it was Raoul and she loved him so she just turned her head. She didn't cry though. She _would not _cry. Instead she thought of what it would be like if she were THAT girl - the brave, determined one. The girl that could fix this. She pretended that she wasn't really a little lost girl.

He laughed and took off her shirt.

Raoul only stayed for about fifteen minutes. It would have been a great deal longer if he had actually made love to her. But he was already taking so many risks. If Christine got pregnant... And true enough, he knew that he was pushing things as it was, but he couldn't help himself.

He'd been coming into her room (which should have still been _his _room) for four years now. She had started developing quickly, and it was all too noticeable. At first, he did nothing about it. But then he realized that this was his payment for all that he had had to give up for her (including his room). He deserved this. Just a small release. It was only fair.

Equilibrium. That's what Erik had said. Everything reached equillibrium at one point or another. This was a part of that.

He would always smirk when he thought that if his older brother, Phillip, could see him now, he wouldn't be so quick to insult him. No, he had a beautiful sixteen year-old in his bed who never denied him anything. Phillip couldn't laugh at that. Phillip couldn't say he wasn't a man now. Phillip would _applaud_ his choice. And all the girls who'd said he wasn't good enough... It didn't matter.

Look what he had now - a little golden princess who would never laugh at him, or ignore him. He ruled her. For once, he was the alpha in a relationship, and the feeling of power and almost-gratification was so intoxicating that he felt like laughing. She would never think he wasn't good enough; she worshipped him. As a matter of fact, maybe she wasn't so bad after all.

"Good night."

He left her shirt on the floor. She could get it.

* * *

A/N: Review if you please.


	7. Holy Water

A/N: I'm so nervous about this chapter it doesn't make a bit of sense. I was going to keep it for a minute, you know look over it and whatnot, but I decided that I might as well. Oy. I still feel just snatching it down. Anyway, it isn't very eventful, but it does detail how completely messed up Christine is. Poor thing.

Oh, and I actually replied to all the reviews this time. At least all the ones that I could. Usually I don't because the thought doesn't even occur to me unless I see the lil thingie-ma-jiggy that says Review Reply or whatever. And I kind of don't see it cause I'm hyped up about the fact that I even got a review at all. My bad. I'll try to do it from now on though.

Disclaimer: Tis disclaimed.

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Christine put on her shirt and went back to bed. She pulled the covers over her head, hiding from nothing in particular. It just felt good to have a sense of security, even if it was false. For a moment she lay there, breathing shallowly and thinking things over. Have I sinned? she mouthed quietly. It felt like it. Sins were wrong and she always felt _wrong _when Raoul came in her room. That he hurt her was something she could deal with it. Pain was a something that happened to her a lot. It was normal. Only...

What she felt right now was different. She felt guilty_. _And sinners were supposed to be guilty...

She thought about sins a lot. Maybe it was because of Erik's obsession with his own. He was always talking of sins and death and blood and hell. He said that sins were a danger to ones immortal soul. She was sure that she had a soul because Erik said that everyone did. It kept her company. Sometimes, she would put her hand to her chest and pretend that it was beating instead of her heart.

She was afraid for her soul as if it were a person inside of her. It was the thing that would go on even after Erik or Raoul killed her (and she had come to terms a long time ago with the fact that one of them would). Christine wanted to make sure that it was well taken care of - that it wouldn't get sent to hell, even if she did. To protect her soul, she couldn't sin. She wasn't exactly sure what she could do to protect herself. She thought that maybe all she could do was not be a whore, even though Raoul had told her that all women were. She didn't quite believe that _all _women were though. She refused to believe it.

She couldn't handle that. She threw the covers off of her and got up, heading to the bathroom. _What are you doing? _

She didn't know.

Maybe, she debated with herself, maybe it wasn't a sin at all. Maybe it was something that happened to everyone. Like the time she had gotten her menstrual cycle. She'd thought that was a sin too.

Christine remembered thinking that she was being punished. She remembered thinking that that she was going to hell. She remembered hearing the voices of Erik and Raoul in her head, condemning her.

Erik had told her that the price of sin was blood, and that it was a price that all must pay.

Raoul had told her that Eve and Lilith and Delilah were whores who deceived men and wrought chaos.

"Sinners will burn in a place called hell for all eternity. The fires there lick, lick, lick! Until all you know is flame."

"They were all harlots, Christine. And eventually the blood told on them, as it will with all women. Are you a harlot?" She didn't know, wasn't even sure what a whore was. But she felt like one now.

She started running all hot water until it almost filled the tub. There was holy water, she knew. It was supposed to be cleansing. It was supposed to purify you on the _inside_. And didn't water cancel out the affect of blood?

Back then, she had tried to hide the blood. It was the screaming voices of Raoul and Erik, imprinted on her forever, that had convinced her to listen to her own rarely heard little voice.

It was the voice that told her to hide.

Her deceitful little episode had lasted only a month and a half. At first she had hidden her bloodied clothes under her mattress, but when the smell started up, she knew that wouldn't work anymore.

She should have realized then that she couldn't fool Erik for long.

That day he had gone out to restock the kitchen. Raoul was holed up in That Room and hadn't so much as looked at her that day. He never paid much attention to her until months later. And Erik usually took hours to grocery shop. With the absence of both men, she'd felt safe. That in itself was a marvel. One of the elements involved with living in this house was constant emotional turbulence. She only felt safe when she was alone behind a locked door. Even then the feeling was half-hearted.

That didn't mean that she wouldn't lunge at the opportunity when it presented itself. The minute Erik had left, she'd locked herself in her bathroom so that she could soak her ruined clothes in the tub. Of course she hadn't planned on him coming back early.

What seemed like only seconds later, she felt more than heard Erik as he came through the front door. She couldn't stop her hysterical crying. It was only a matter of time then, and she had no idea what he would do to her.

"There was a Great Whore of Babylon," Raoul had told her once. "When the time for her judgement came, she was tortured and burned and chunks of her flesh were ripped from her body while all the men she'd deceived watched. That's what happens to whores, Christine." And she could see it happening. She could see herself tied to a stake being tortured and ripped apart and set on fire. She could see Raoul throwing stones at her and Erik worshipping at her feet. And she could see fires - big, angry fires that would eat her alive.

It was impossible for Erik _not _to hear her terrified wailing.

Christine squished her eyes closed at the memory, blocking it out for a moment. Then she completely immersed herself in the water, face down. It burned and, instinctively, she got back up.

But she didn't _want _to go to hell. And she didn't want to send her soul there either. So she got back in, the memories coming back faster than she would have liked.

Erik had broken down the door to her room at the sound of her crying. He did the same to her bathroom door. Then he'd stood over her like some terrible, angry god. He screamed at her, demanding to know who had hurt her, and yelling that she would not leave him.

Then he'd shaken her shoulders so hard that she'd cracked her head against this very same tub. It had taken him days to calm down, and a week after to be convinced by Raoul's explanation of her bleeding. She still wasn't sure if he quite believed it, but he had ordered Raoul to buy her the necessary equipment to deal with her problem. Presently, she thought that he probably just pretended it didn't exist. It was something she was sure that he would do. Anything, really, to ignore reality.

But still, her bleeding hadn't been a sin. Raoul had told her that it was a punishment curse on all women. She really didn't much care if it happened to all women. That made it somewhat normal in her book. She'd never seen another woman in real life. There were sometimes pictures of them in the few fairy tale books that Erik had bought for her. There were certainly mentions of them, but not very many pictures. If there were any pictures at all, most of them consisted of angels.

There were avenging angels, merciful angels, fallen angels: all supposedly her kindred. But she _knew_ that they weren't. She knew that she was only a girl, and that she wanted to see someone like herself. It was one of the few things that she _did _know for herself.

What Christine really wanted was a sister like some of the girls in her books. She wanted someone to comfort her and someone to talk to her. She wanted someone who looked like her. She wanted someone who bled too.

She realized then that she wasn't breathing. There was burning water filling her nose and mouth - holy water. And she sputtered but didn't move because she didn't really not want to die even though she didn't want to die. Maybe holy water worked in different ways. Maybe the only way she could be purified was away from this place. Maybe you had to go away for a while before it could work. She could feel herself going away now - no, ebbing away described it better.

Oh, wouldn't Erik be surprised to know that angels could drown?

* * *

Review please. Don't make me beg. Because I will. Psh. My dignity was destroyed a long time ago anyway (thank you mama). : )


	8. Author's Note

A/N: I'm going to make this quick and easy - like my cousin. Not the point. I've been without the Internet for a minute, and until I can get the charger (60 dollars out a pocket. Ain't that about a bad word?), no update. Obviously. I couldn't keep up with my head if it wasn't attached to my body, and anything I've written down, I've lost. But I also want to say that some of the reviews I've gotten have tripped me out so hard.

Principia: Girl you crazy. : ) I am so glad that this story screwed you over. It gives me great joy. *wipes away tear*

a nyr byrjun: I know right. I had to do that because some people get a little uncomfortable during those parts.

Oops, gotta go.

Be patient with me please ya'll. I'm dealing.

- Devonna Ransom (Future World Dictator)


	9. House of Monsters

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**A/N: I GOT A NEW LAPTOP! (Oh, Jesus. You just get better and better. *wink*) Which means, my good friends, that I can actually update. Come! Let us laugh haughtily together! Dohohohohohohohoho!**

**What? Too much?**

Sorry. Anyway, I just got it today but I had to redo the last half of the chapter after accidentally deleting it (you talk about somebody was pissed off, ooh!) But I was able to change the tone of this author note from "I am so sorry blah blah everything that could go wrong did blah" to "I'm so happy. Oh, and sorry."

**That's not important, though. What is important is that I'm back, and although it's not with the bang that I might have liked, it'll do.**

**P.S. - The song in this chapter is Le Vieil Amant by Emilie Simon. I usually despise it with the white-hot intensity of a thousand burning suns (whoo) when people write the lyrics to a song in their chapters, but it was necessary here.**_________

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_

He'd never experienced horror like the one he experienced upon finding her like that. It was surreal. He could still see her now with her hair all splayed out and floating like sunbeams. Maybe he screamed when he saw her. Maybe his heart didn't drop. Maybe his soul did. But it was anyone's guest, and only his heartbreak.

Two days passed, and he still hadn't left her side. He had not washed or eaten. He had not breathed, really. He only tore himself away when relief was necessary, and even that shamed him.

There was never a dog more devoted.

He had rested his porcelain-covered forehead on hers, breathing harshly and shifting the cold compress further upwards. His closed eyes had touched her closed eyelids. He caressed lashes that he'd adored for what seemed his entire miserable-without-her life. His lips had moved rapidly on her cheeks. He had half-prayed, half-demanded that what he loved most would be restored. He'd pretended, fleetingly, that he was God. He'd pretended that he coudl breathe life into her. Make her speak, make her move, make her live.

But all Erik could really do was cry anguished tears and watch them run down her reddened face. All he could do was sit on her bed and watch.

He'd thought then that she was truly gone.

Raoul had told him several times that she wasn't. He'd assured him that she was only very exhausted and very overwhelmed and very, very deeply asleep. Erik still wasn't sure. There was a possibility, a fear, that he had imagined seeing vacant open eyes and hearing fevered murmurings. Perhaps it had been a dream, or a nightmare, to see them close again. Only what would he do if it was? What would he do if she was gone?

Oh, he'd sobbed and moaned and shuddered, falling in on himself like the House of Usher. He'd cracked inside over the thoughts of her leaving. He'd fallen apart, bit by bit, knowing that there was nothing, nothing, nothing. Not a hope or a desire to keep him tied to any place that she didn't inhabit. What would he do? he'd asked himself. What would he do if she went back? The only option seemed to be to crawl beside her empty body and languish beside her. What could he do but die with his shackled arms on her wrists and his arms crushing that soft, empty frame...?

Maybe, in another time, these imaginings would have suited his need for melodrama and morbidity. Maybe before he'd stolen Christine, he would have released his cares and his worries. Maybe he would have reveled in the feeling of being so doomed. But then it had just left him feeling like a broken piece of something.

Before, he had been quite sure of who he was. He had been Erik - ugly, unlovable, pitiful Erik. He was certain then of who he was and what he was. He had been sure of his capabilities, his limitations, and his own wicked strength. Now he wasn't. His identity was tangled up in her existence. It was built on her life. If his angel did not wake up, Erik would not be Erik any longer.

He had looked down at Christine and wondered if this was his fault. He had wondered if it was his fault that he'd almsot lost her. He wondered if it was his fault that everything seemed to be conspiring against him and that everywhere he turned, he was in danger of losing her.

Then he'd asked himself something different. It wasn't a self-scathing or self-reprimanding question about his misdeeds. It was a challenge.

If it was? he asked himself. If it was his fault, what would he do? What more could he do? How much more could he kill, rant, rage? How much more? It seemed that for hours, there he was, thinking of every person he'd killed, every rage he'd breathed, and all those dark things he'd seen. It was so pointless. He was exhausted, finished. He was tired of killing and crying. He was tired of all of his self-generated turmoil.

His emotions had been on overload for much too long, and this was his breaking point.

He had melted down. Just slumped down by the side of her bed.

Now, as he lay dying somewhere deeper, he wanted only one thing. He wanted to hold onto Christine. He wanted to just lay down beside her. The need to be as close as possible to her suddenly swelled and burst within him. He felt glutted and even faintly nauseous. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to eat her alive, drink her blood, swallow her whole. He wanted to take off his mask and rub the rotten, peeling flesh of his cheek against her smooth one...

She probably didn't know. Probably didn't have a clue as to how much he adored her and needed her. How much he loved her.

________________

_Dearest girl. You are my God._

But he knew that she wouldn't move, accepted it with surprising calm.

________________

__

_So she is gone. _

He didn't feel sad. He didn't feel anything. He just took off his mask and buried his face in her hair, singing the words she'd made him feel.

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"Mon amour j'ai pense  
Avec naivete  
Qu'un brin seul de muguet  
Pouvait te ramener  
Alors j'ai retrouve  
Un ou deux vieux sonnets  
Pour te rappeler  
Pour te rappeler  
A moi mon amour  
A travers ce beau jour  
De printemps j'ai laisse  
Pres de tes pieds tomber  
Un brin seul de muguet  
Mais il s'est desseche  
Attendant ce baiser  
Qui ne viendra jamais..."

He felt more than heard that subtle movement, wherever it had come from. He pushed his face further into her hair and tried to breathe properly.

"_Je voulais je l'avoue  
Danser joue contre joue  
Je l'avoue je revais  
De te faire tournoyer  
Respirer cet air frais  
Regarder rayonner  
Le visage d'un amour  
Qui n'a pas vu le jour."_

____

There was another movement. Slight. But it was enough. He felt hope stutter in his chest and seep into his voice. He felt his mind uncurl and stretch, felt his heartbeat.

"_Le mois de mai  
S'est joue de moi  
Cette annee  
J'ai laise couler trop d'emois  
Cette fois le mois mai  
S'est moque de moi  
Cette annee  
J'ai laisser couler trop d'emois  
Cette fois  
Cette fois.."_

_"Il est parti le temps  
Il n'a pas pris son temps  
Me voila qui t'attends  
Comme un vieux pretendant  
Me voila qui regrette  
Devant ces quelques miettes  
Une vielle amourette  
Qui n'a ni queue ni tete..."_

She was waking up now, and so was he.

"Mon amour..."

Her eyes fluttered open and he waited. He waited for her to smile at him and thank him and tell him that she missed him. He waited for some sign or signal that she understood what he had just gone through.

Only she didn't. INstead, her hands flew to her face and she began to sob. He jerked back, unprepared. Why was she crying like this? Like - like - like him? Broken and hopeless. He had to make her stop.

"Angel, angel. Please stop crying, please." He reached for her, but she snapped away from him, sobbing even louder. It was grating on him, her sobbing. No. Her wailing. She sounded like some dying thing and he couldn't take it. Couldn't take the way her wailing wrapped round him and squeezed. It made him absolutely mad. She had to stop...

"Angel! Angel please! Stop crying! Stop! Stop!"

The ghost in his bed just grew louder. "Stop, stop, stop..." She didn't stop though, just kept wailing and wailing and wailing... "Stop it. Stop it."

He could see himself ending her right there. "Be quiet, be quiet."

He could see himself wrapping his hands around that neck he so adored and squeezing...

"Please."

And he would squeeze. Squeeze until the pale white skin was a paler blue and the eyes burst.

"SHUTUP!"

There was quiet then. Blessed quiet.

She looked at him with shocked eyes. He hadn't meant to yell. Hadn't even meant to raise his voice. He was sorry, truly. He would never hurt her, never. Never harm a hair on her pretty little head. He hadn't meant it.

He mumbled apologies, but they fell on deaf ears.

"Tell me what you want, Angel. Tell me what you want, and I'll give it to you. I'll give you anything. Anything, I will. I will, I will."

_He will, he will, he will, _Christine mocked silently. He would what? What more could he do? What more could he ruin, destroy, tear to shattering pieces? A foreign feeling swelled up inside of her, choking her with its violence. She felt different. As if she should do what she could to make things right for herself...

After all, what right? What right did he have to be angry with her? What right did he have to yell? After all she'd done to sate him. After all she'd given him! After all he'd taken from her!

She wanted to scream and fight and show him just what she thought of all his empty promises and pretty words.

_She _wanted to bleed _him. _

He was always hurting her, one way or the other. Always making her hurt. And then he would say that he loved her and that she meant everything to him, but they were black lies. This wasn't love. It couldn't be. It couldnt be this controlling, this hurtful, this choking. She didn't know what it was, but she was so _sick_. So very sick of having it thrown in her face.

"What do you want, Angel? What do you want? Tell me what you want! What do you want? I'll give you anything! I will, I will, I - "

"I WANT A GIRL!" she screamed, shaking, breaking somewhere. "I want a girl just like me! Give her to me! Give her to me you selfish, lying monster! Give her to me now!"

He looked shocked, looked as if something inside of him had shattered.

She reveled in it.

She was not an angel, and he did not love her as he said. They two were nothing but living, breathing lies, festering as time went on. Christine wanted him to kill her then. Wanted him to be furious and wrap his hands around her neck and squeeze.

Wanted him to bleed her mercilessly.

Then she could look at him and tell him that she knew that he was nothing but a cowardly liar who was too afraid to realize just what sort of monstrosity he really was. She felt all these things and knew that they weren't like her. She knew that this wasn't meek, pliant Christine. But the Holy Water had changed her. The Holy Water had taken her to a dark, empty place, where there was nothing to cling to and no one to cling with. There had been no one to look to but herself. She was wondering if that was the way it was in this world too.

And she wasn't afraid anymore.

"Well?" Christine snapped, impatient.

He fell into her lap and started to sob. She pushed at him violently. "Get away from me you monster!"

"Please!" he begged. "Please don't push me away! I'll die, don't you understand? I'll die! I need you, Angel! I'll do anything for you, be anything for you! I _worship _you!"

She didn't push him away this time! She was stunned. _I worship you! I worship you! _Did he mean like God? Was she God to him? The thought stirred something new and dark inside of her. Whatever it meant, something in this monster's words rang true. The truth - the real truth - began to dawn beautifully in her mind. Oh she had been wrong all along!

"Say it again! Tell me that again if you love me as you say!" she demanded.

He was confused for a moment, but then eagerly professed his devotion once more. She drank in his words and felt them give her an undeniable new strength. Christine was understanding now.

This was not her prison. This was her palace.

There were no chains holding her. Or at least, none that she couldn't break.

Erik _did not rule here_.

She did.

She leaned forward and touched his mask. Victory flooded her as he elicited pathetic-sounding moans and dropped pathetic little words.

Then Christine gave him the prettiest smile that she could manage, not realizing that there was more than one monster in the story.

* * *

Raoul drew back from the door, stunned. The little witch. Surprisingly, his thoughts were almost fond. He'd never, never, never, expected this. Not any of it. He'd thought Christine was just a mediocre little player in this game of their's, but he'd been more than wrong. Oh her suicide attempt! He almost salivated at the thought of it.

It had been a master stroke! It was so unexpected, so dramatic, so - so - so threatening in the strangest of ways! Here she was telling Erik that she could take away, even if it was at the expense of her own life. Raoul could admit that he had been angry at first. The time to put his long thought-out plans into action had seemed near until she'd pulled that little stunt.

Only, it was starting to occur to him that now she might be more ready than ever.

_And look at her now. _Giving demands laced with equal amounts of rage and softness. If she were to be taught the finer points of psychological manipulation...

He scolded himself. She was his _enemy, _not his protege. He should not even be contemplating this. He should not be contemplating... all that the two of them could accomplish together. He should not be contemplating the world of damage that the two of them could do to Erik. He shouldn't be, really.

Only Christine held limitless power over Erik, while he had lost all favor with that foolish man sometime ago. _Because of her. _He frowned, and the idea was discarded. However tempting, out of the two of them -

No. Out of the three of them, there would only be room for one monster in the end.

* * *

A/N: Merry Christmas ya'll! And don't forget the greatest gift of all...

*opens up gift-wrapped box*

Oh look, it's Jesus! *holds up plastic Jesus* Teehee. See what I did there with the Jesus and the gift-wrapped box? Ahh. Corny.

Anyway, review if anything about Christmas so moves you. It doesn't have to be Jesus. Although... *holds up plastic Jesus again and makes him dance the Macarana*


	10. Funny Boy

**Author's Note: Just a little teaser. And if any of it confuses you, congratulations. That's exactly what it's supposed to do. :) Also, I laid that mess on thick this chapter. I'm feeling a little dramatic.  
**

* * *

Tell me what you want my pretty thing. Tell me what you want, my little Vesta. Tell me what you want my evil little Chimera. Tell me what you want, murderess, Judas, dark princess. I'll give it to you. I'll give you anything. I'll let you burn me alive if you would tell me the right lies. I promise I'd give you all.

I swear on my soul I'll give you whatever you desire my pretty thing.

* * *

Christine did not sleep the night of her awakening. She didn't want to. She wanted to have some fun, and she wanted to see what she could do now. Maybe it would help her decide what she _would _do. No, she did not sleep. Instead, she made Erik stay in her room. He must have been afraid, must have seen the look on her face and known that she would like him only when he wasn't breathing. But she pouted and made her voice small and he couldn't resist. He was weak and it would be his own fault...

Only she had to admit that he had one nice quality. For instance, he was so funny! And she learned very quickly that he would do whatever she told him if she smiled at him.

"Bark like a dog!" she would say (even though she didn't quite know what a dog sounded like).

He would bark!

"Kneel down!" she would say.

He would kneel!

"Curse your God!" she would say.

And he would curse Him!

"Pull your hair out!" she would say.

Out it would come!

"Cut yourself!" She would say.

And he would do it too! Do it until his blood ran like little ribbons over his gloved arms and he was crying – not out of pain, but out of his desperation please her! He was so funny, so funny! So long as she smiled at him!

It made her feel absolutely giddy, and she couldn't stop the little hiccups and giggles. It was just so – so – so strange. After all, she had spent all this time crying and hurting when she could have just made him do it. It had been stupid of her not to realize it sooner, but that didn't matter. She would make up for lost time. Erik, broken little toy, didn't mind at all. And he was just so funny!

* * *

**A/N: Yes, like I said, a bit of a teaser. The next chapter should be up anywhere from tonight to Friday. I understand if you don't review; it was super short. Of course, if you do, I'll love ya forever baby!**


	11. Shiny Pink Skin and Shiny Sharp Teeth

**A/N: Greetings. This is two days later than I would have liked, but when life hands you a few blessed hours of nothing but Z's and a few more of nonstop Nanny reruns with one of your best friends, you make lemonade dang it!**

**... I apologize. Also, sorry for the brevity. I'll probably do some adding-on later. Right now though, I'm kind of content with this.**

* * *

Christine was in a beautiful castle, sitting on a throne that made her feel like a queen. It was embedded with startling rubies. She was not in white. Instead she was in a long, flowing, bloody red dress made of soft broken hearts. The castle was made of stone, and a great, steep staircase wound around it. The staircase never ended; it just reached up and up and up until the light blocked her vision.

There was no prince to keep her company or maids to do her hair. No servants scurried around the corners in fear of her wild, beautiful temper. But it was okay because her attendants were lovely. They were men in rags and chains, and they walked up the staircase. They never stopped at all. All they did was walk on and on and on and stare with their empty eyes. If they stumbled they died. But the men behind and before the dead ones kept walking anyway. (It was really very funny to see the dead ones being dragged along, but that wasn't really the best part.)

The best part was that they would do whatever she told him to do. They had given themselves in exchange for her smiles. So the castle was all hers. The men were all hers. Everything was all hers. She stood up, twirled around, giggled. It was glorious! She felt more beautiful now than ever she had with Erik's foolish words.

Only... Only… She stopped twirling and stared. It was so empty, this castle. There were only the empty men to keep her company, and all they did was walk away…

Her cheek felt cold then. Slimy. There was something crawling on it. She clawed at her face but it kept crawling. It was a bug probably. Maybe it was a worm. Maybe it was a great big fat worm slithering over her face. She started to scream for someone to help her (she didn't like worms in her palace – or at all for that matter), but the men on the stairs just kept walking away.

And then there were armies of worms, hordes of them. Big, fat, slimy _pink_ worms with tiny pointed teeth. They surrounded her, crawling towards her with beady little eyes. The sound of their bodies pushing over the hard stone made a rustling noise like that of Erik's cloak. She stumbled back and fell onto her throne - her glorious, ruby-encrusted throne that made her feel like a queen. The worms kept coming. She couldn't even close her eyes.

They wrapped around her ankles first. Then they shivered up her body, dipping into the sleeves and crevices of her dress. (_Like Raoul? Like Raoul, Princess? Oh Princess, you are dying. Silly girl, you are dying._)

And she was a princess. She was a beautiful princess with poor, weak flesh that tore easily from their shiny, sharp teeth.

They were wet against her skin, sliding and leaving trails of slime. She screamed and screamed and screamed until one crawled into her mouth. Then she was just quiet and scared and sunk into the throne while more crawled into her eyes and nose and ears. It was the glorious, ruby-encrusted throne that made her feel like a queen.

The worm crawling on her face spoke. "Angel."

Why, it wasn't a worm at all!

* * *

Christine was not in a castle. There were no men in rags and chains. There was no beautiful red dress. There was no ruby-encrusted throne. But something was crawling on her face…

She screamed in the darkness, and the crawling thing was gone. This was her bedroom and she was in her bed. There were no worms here. There could not be. Erik would never allow a worm to get into her room and crawl on her. Where was he?

Soft moans and softer sobs slipped through and cleared the last of the dream-smoke. It was Erik and he was kneeling. "Why won't you let me touch you angel?" She recoiled, but he did not notice. His hands were covering the eye slits in his mask. "Why won't you let me touch you? I love you, you see? I love you so much. I just want to touch you angel. I just wanted to touch your pretty, pretty face that feels like pretty whispers."

He had been the worm! And he was a worm now, wretched man!

She wanted to spit on him, to slap him and kick him and make _him _walk the staircase that wound round and round. But the memory of her death upon the throne was still fresh and clear in her mind, and she would need him if she were to get what she wanted. And she knew what she wanted now, what she had wanted for as long as she could remember. She remembered what she had wanted in that lonely castle.

Christine leaned down and threaded her fingers in his hair. He froze and moaned again. She forced her voice to be soft. _I'll give you a pretty whisper. _"You can touch me Erik. I'll let you touch me if you give me one thing." She would too. She'd be almost grateful to him if he could just give her this. "Just one thing."

He started sobbing again and making his silly little declarations that made him sound as if he were in pain. She found it hard not to tell him to shut up.

"Erik. Erik?"

"Angel?"

"I want a girl Erik. I want a girl just like me. Can you get her for me?"

He looked up.

"Do you want her alive?"

She gasped. Why of course! What would she do with a dead one?

"Yes, Erik! A live one! Don't you hurt her! Don't you dare hurt her!"

He nodded, gazing at her face in that way that made her angry again.

"I'll get you anything, anything you desire, Angel. Anything." His hand sought hers for reassurance and maybe something else, but she recoiled violently, snapping.

"Off of me! I don't want anything else, miserable Erik! Just give me my girl!"

Her voice quieted again. "Just give me my girl."

* * *

**A/N: As I sit here, gnawing contentedly on my strawberry Ring Pop (Ages 3+), sipping my super sour cranberry juice, and listening to the sweet melodies of Maxwell, I desire only one thing - a review. *sad face***


	12. Please Read

**A/N: Hola heffas. Tis I - back from the dead. Well, in all actuality it's back from, you know, doing nothing but inhaling an unusually large amount of fried chicken, talking way too much, and having way too many people come over to my house in a short period of time. I know; It seems like I was just being lazy and uninspired. But it's a long story. Really. Anyway, ahem, this is just a tiny little author's note telling you that I have been alerted to the fact that somehow, I uploaded Chapter 4 twice - and Chapter 3 is kind of lost forever.**

**Sorry about that. **

**So what I'm going to do is just, write another Chapter 3 from scratch. Which is sad because I really liked that chapter; I was extremely pissed off at myself. But I'm rambling. What I meant to say in one paragraph is that I should be popping out two chapters really soon. Not soon as in tomorrow - got company. But soon. Hold on for me, please ya'll. Also, I really appreciate all the reviews. Just, dang. I mean no exaggeration when I say that reading them makes me giggle and snort like a little troll. When I come into power, you will all have cookies.**

**Also, THE MAVERICKS WON THE CHAMPIONSHIP BABY! LEBRON, PUT _THAT_ IN YOUR PIPE AND SMOKE IT!**

**- Devonna Ransom (Future World Dictator)**


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